Vanity. Sigh.
“You’ve just been through a traumatic experience. Besides, you don’t look so bad.”
“No, you don’t understand. I can’t be seen like this because of my contract.”
“Contract?”
Hope’s voice pitched higher and her words tumbled hard. “I’m a cheerleader with the Miami Dolphins. I have public image standards. My clothes, my hair, my makeup. If I’m seen anywhere like this, I’ll be fired. I might be quitting, but . . .” She took a deep breath. “It’s complicated.”
“Where’s your purse?”
“I don’t have it,” she sniffed. “When those people grabbed me, they threw my purse out the window. It had my phone, my makeup, everything.”
Wow. She was going to have to call her phone company, her bank, and all her credit cards. I wasn’t about to remind her of that. Not with tears barely held at bay. My instincts as a male urged me to provide a solution, quickly. “Okay,” I sighed. “What do you need?”
Hope rattled off a list of female face supplies, including exact brand, product, color, and in some cases the size of bottle.
“Hold on. I’m never going to remember any of that.”
My private detective gear waited in a closet. At some point, I’d lost my Dick Tracy decoder ring but I still had my gun in its holster and my handcuffs. More importantly, I had handcuff keys. Next to the closet stood a handsome oak secretary desk from an estate sale, which basically existed so I’d have a place to hold stamps for mailing bills. It also had notepads and pencils.
Hope waited in the great room, looking at the artwork and my piano, which had four long, deep gouges in the top. Motioning her to the couch, I got her to sit down, putting the notepad and pencil on the coffee table in front of her. She kept eyeing the piano but I felt no inclination to explain the gouges, souvenirs from a giant, invisible liondog.
I unlocked the handcuffs, letting them fall onto the couch to keep from touching them any more than necessary. Hope sighed and gingerly pressed the red welts with her fingertips, moaning as she did. “Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome.” I felt a twinge of guilt. I had the ability to heal her and remove all her pain and there wouldn’t even be a scar. But I couldn’t use my powers in front of her. I was in enough trouble with the disappearing bomb.
Pointing at the notepad and pencil, I said, “Write down what you need and I’ll go get it.”
Hope started writing. Sandretta entered with impeccable timing. “Would you and Max get Hope some breakfast?” I asked. “Lunch? Whatever she wants? She’s had a hard day.”
Sandretta nodded, with a hint of a smile that seemed to be both apologetic and amused. She gave no other clues regarding what had her so entertained.
Makeup list in hand, I climbed into my ‘65 Mustang and tooled off in the direction of the nearest Walgreen’s. The CD player offered up “Ramble On” by Led Zeppelin. I cranked it.
As I drove, I wondered about the wisdom of taking Hope in. I knew nothing about her, a fact I’d need to rectify. She was so sincere, though, and her need felt real. Besides, I was a sucker for a girl in need of rescuing. A character flaw I’d likely never rectify.
At the store, the makeup aisle was a riot of confusing little bottles, jars, and tubes in a million colors. There was appropriate loin girding as I started on Hope’s list. I’d fought a deamhanlord and this task was almost as horrifying. After ten minutes, I had to take a breather. There was makeup at my feet and makeup in my hands and a headache pounded at the back of my head as I squinted at labels. I couldn’t tell the difference between “Peach Bloom” and “Peach Rose” but, apparently, it was vital to get the right one.
The clerk, a pleasantly rotund little woman with dyed magenta hair, came to my rescue.
“Need some help, honey?”
She glanced sideways at the tiny bottles on the floor. She was probably calculating how long it would take to put them all back on the shelves which made her offer to help an act of self-preservation. “Sorry,” I said. “I’m not sure what to get.”
I offered her my handwritten list.
She scanned the list and hit the shelves with impressive efficiency, snatching the right products and handing them to me. It took her all of sixty seconds to find every item.
“I know what your superpower is,” I said.
She smiled but it was also more efficient than heartfelt. “Can I give you some advice?”
“Sure.”
“These are all wrong for your coloring,” she said. “You’re not a Summer.”
“Oh. These aren’t for me.”
“Uh-huh.”
A rack of mirrors hung nearby. The clerk pulled one off and held it inches away from my face. My lips had red smears (Carnelian Coral?) and traces of black (not waterproof) spread under my eyes. There were also patches of Hope’s Peach Bloom or Peach Rose or whatever it was on my cheeks. More streaks of makeup marked my shirt from holding Hope.
“You have to look close to see this,” I argued. “Anyway, there’s this girl . . .”
“You don’t have to explain to me, honey.” The clerk turned. Walked off. Waddled off.
I took my purchases to the counter. The heat in my face helped me to get over feeling bad about the mess I’d left on the floor. As the clerk rang up, I grabbed a handful of beef snacks to re-establish my masculinity.
* * *
I should’ve got wet wipes. While snapping into a thin stick of meat byproduct whose formal name was James, I turned into my street, regretting the makeup on my face. It wasn’t that noticeable. A television news van blocked my driveway with the local call letters WSFN on the side. The cameraman and the noon o’clock news girl, who I recognized, were shooting test shots with my house in the background.
What the noober goobers?
Pulling over to a stop so I could watch from a distance, I stewed. Sooner or later, I’d want to call Erin. I had evidence that could use her special handling. Erin had the ability to see the history of an object, like where it had been and who had touched it. It was one of the reasons she was so good at her job as Medical Examiner. And one of the reasons I turned to her for help sometimes. No one else had contributed to as many successful case closures as Erin because no one else had such an efficient way to trace evidence back to the culprit. She was at work right now, though. It’d be better to pester her later, although her voice could make me smile just by the sound.
The news crew weren’t broadcasting because the news reporter—Kathy or Candy or something—wasn’t talking. She had the microphone against her shoulder while she stared into the distance. Every few seconds she shook her head and spoke. Being a private detective and all, I expertly deduced she was having a chat with her producer at the studio.
Someone must have called about Hope and the briefcase previously cuffed to her wrist.
By blocking the drive, they were hoping to get a story from whoever was inside. Max and Sandretta would ignore them if they knocked. The problem was I couldn’t get in either. I could wait them out but I had no idea what they had been told. If they felt the source was reliable, they might hang around for hours. Days even.
Until they got something they could use.
Or . . .
I pulled forward and stuck my head out the window like a cocker spaniel. “Hey! Cool!” I yelled. “Are you guys here for the party?”
The reporter spoke a terse word into her microphone and click-clicked on her heels into the road to meet me. The cameraman followed, moving to get us both in the shot.
She cranked up the “very concerned” portions of her face and said, “Hello. I’m Katie Castellanos, Channel 7 News.”
Katie? Could have sworn she was Kathy.
Katie barely paused for breath. “We received a report of a fugitive in the area.”
Fugitive? Boy was she barking up the wrong birch.
“Are you the owner of this residence?”
“Uh,” I replied. I pulled my head back in
to the car, turtle-style. The cameraman would have to move again since I was no longer hanging out the window. The little red light that lit up when the camera was recording switched off.
I stuck my head back out the window. The cameraman readjusted his aim. The little red light went back on. He and Katie undoubtedly hoped there would be a normal reply from me. Wrong birch again. I looked at the camera like I’d just noticed he was there. Then I looked back at Katie. “Just a sec,” I said, retreating back into the car. The cameraman kept rolling. The glove compartment was full of papers that I started pulling out. Registration papers. Insurance card. Copies of my private investigator’s license and my gun permit. I shuffled them around, keeping an eye on the cameraman.
After ten seconds, Katie leaned closer tried again “Sir? We need to know if you’re the owner of the house.”
No. You need to get your van away from the end of my driveway.
I stuck my head back out the window. “This fugitive you’re looking for,” I started. Katie pasted an encouraging expression on her face, glad I was saying something she might get to air. “Does she drive a pink Cadillac?”
“Did you see someone in a pink Cadillac, sir?” Katie’s voice intensified. Her eyebrows climbing a rung up the ladder. Juicy details were her stock in trade.
“That’s who you’re looking for, isn’t it?”
“Possibly. We got a report that there was a woman with a briefcase bomb at this location. She may have been looking for the owner of this house. Is that you?”
“Yeah. I’m the owner.”
Katie gave the finally-we’re-getting-somewhere look. The look wouldn’t last long.
“Well, technically, my dad is the owner,” I said. “I’m more like the lease holder. But dad pays the mortgage. He’s got a palace too. That’s where he lives. I don’t even know if he’s ever been here, come to think of it. He sends a guy.”
“Sir?” One of Katie’s eyebrows took another rung up the ladder.
“If he pays the mortgage and lets me live here I guess I’m not even a lease holder. I pay the utilities though. I’m not even a renter. I’m a utilitarian, I think. Is that the right word?”
“Sir.” Katie stood up, tired of leaning at my car window and getting garbage from me.
“Hey. You’re a reporter. Is that the right word? Utilitarian?” I scratched my chin absently. “I think I voted Utilitarian.”
“Okay, sir, look. Forget the owner of the house.” Katie’s ladder-climbing eyebrows dropped to meet in the middle.
“Sorry. I’m just trying to answer honestly.”
Katie turned and checked to see if the cameraman was still shooting. I’d been watching the little red light. It hadn’t gone off. Katie pressed her hand against the waist of her pantsuit. Apparently, that’s where her “Be Calm and Professional” button was located. When she felt composed, she turned back to me. “Can you tell us about the lady in the pink Cadillac? Did she have a briefcase bomb?”
“I’m sure she has a briefcase. I don’t think there’s a bomb. Did you guys see her?”
“No. We’re asking if you saw her.”
“It sounds like you think she’s here already.”
“Right.” Katie sighed. “We got a call. Someone reported seeing a woman with a briefcase and she was overheard talking about a bomb with the owner of this house.”
“You told me to forget about the owner of the house.”
“Yes.” Katie stepped back, the hand with the microphone dropping to her hip. Her other hand went to her forehead. She muttered in Spanish. It sounded like cussing. Or a prayer for strength and patience that wouldn’t get answered, considering her choice of words.
The cameraman’s attention drifted but the lens stayed on me. Light still on. I started wishing he were less competent.
“You checked around the house?” I asked. Mr. Helpful.
Katie nodded.
I looked around the sides of the van. Or tried. “You can walk through the yard if you want. See if she’s hiding in the bushes.”
Katie shook her head.
“Did that already, huh?”
Katie nodded again.
“You can wait. See if she shows up. The lady with the pink Cadillac and the briefcase. Although I’m pretty sure she won’t have a bomb.”
Katie inhaled. Brought the microphone back up to her face.
“Can you tell us who this lady is?”
“That’s a good question!” I ducked back in and got the lipstick out of the bag from Walgreen’s. I showed it to Katie. “The Mary Kay lady!”
“Mary Kay?”
“Yeah. You know. The women who sell makeup to people. In their houses. They bring samples and stuff. In their briefcases.” I pulled the lid off the lipstick and turned the handle so the stick came out, then drew a slash across my upper lip—Carnelian Coral?—then my lower lip.
Katie rolled her eyes toward an unsympathetic heaven. “You’re really talking about the Mary Kay lady?”
I pointed a finger at my own face. Made a circle around the circumference. “You noticed the makeup on my face. Right?”
Katie made a slashing motion across her throat. The cameraman nodded. The little red light went off.
“You noticed I was wearing makeup, right?” I raised my voice. Katie was climbing into the van.
“Wouldn’t be a very good reporter if you missed a detail like that.” I yelled. The cameraman finished loading the equipment into the back of the van. He gave me a sideways glare as he got into the driver’s side.
“Hey! Am I gonna be on TV?”
The van pulled away, leaving my driveway wide open.
Chapter Three: Teammates
Back inside the house, Sandretta hid a smile. Unsuccessfully. She’d known I had makeup on my face before she let me go out the door. I thought about a suitable way to ask why. She took one look at the upset expression on my face and said, “It was time to shake things up, milord.”
Aha. There was the why. She was right. I hadn’t been myself for six months.
Letting Sandretta off the hook, I asked. “Where’s Hope?”
“Ms. Hope is showering in the guest room. I took the liberty of altering a few of your wife’s clothes so she would have something to wear. Is that all right?”
There it was. My wife.
Erin.
The reason I hadn’t been myself for six months.
Sandretta waited for my answer. It took longer than it should have for me to give it. “Of course. Good idea.” I didn’t say sorry or thank you. We don’t say those words around here. Sorrys and thank yous are for humans. Not Eternals. Not Halflings like me.
I gave the bag of makeup to Sandretta. “Make sure Ms. Hope gets this.” She took the bag with a nod. I pointed at my face. Again. “I’m going to wash off this shake up.”
In my bedroom, I called Erin.
She answered on the second ring. “Got?” Her voice was husky yet soulful.
“Yeah. Hi. Do you have time to check some evidence for me? On the sly?”
“Can’t. We got called out to a scene. It’ll probably take a few hours.”
“It’ll wait. I’ll bring it to you. Do you mind if someone borrows some of the clothes you left here?”
She paused. “Someone needs to borrow my clothes?”
Part of my brain—the smart part—screamed at me to choose my next words carefully. “There’s a girl in danger. I can explain when there’s time. Her name’s Hope. She needs to stay here for a while and doesn’t have any clothes.”
Another pause.
“Extra clothes,” I amended. “She has some clothes—”
“Yeah, sure. Gotta go.” Erin hung up. It was always hard to say goodbye but the way she had ended the call had been abrupt. Hadn’t it?
Was I in trouble?
I sighed. At least Hope wearing Erin’s stuff was stamped as approved. I could take the evidence to Erin later and see how much hot water I was in.
Real hot water and soap and
shampoo gave me a chance to clean my face and clear my head. While I toweled off, worrisome thoughts scampered through my mind, like yappy dogs off the leash.
Focus.
Someone had called the television station instead of the police. That told me a lot about the people who’d chained the bomb to Hope’s wrist and dumped her in the street. They wanted to make news. If they’d dropped her off in front of Senator Lima’s house, they would have succeeded. They’d gone to a lot of trouble to set Hope up but they hadn’t got the location right. That bothered me. Why had they been so careful with the bomb but so careless with the drop?
I had more immediate problems. The biggest problem stood about five-foot-two with blond hair, eating lunch in my kitchen.
As I came in from the hall, I saw Hope from the back. Her hair had been artfully arranged and she wore one of Erin’s dresses, scaled down for her smaller frame. Hope was six inches shorter than Erin but the dress fit perfectly, thanks to Sandretta’s fast-magic tailoring skills. For all I knew, Sandretta had enchanted scissors and needles with thread that moved by themselves while she sang a song. Possibly all stolen from Disney World.
“This is delicious,” Hope said. She spoke to Max, who moonlighted as a chef in my kitchen when he wasn’t tending to citrus trees and magical wards.
Max nodded with a smile. He’d made grilled steak salad with red peppers and pineapple and a dressing that must have included garlic chili sauce. The aroma found its way from her plate to my nose to my stomach like an olfactory siren’s song.
A serving waited for me. I sat down kitty-corner from Hope at the table. She gave me a sunny smile while her bare feet tapped at the tiles on the floor, enjoying their own dance. When Max wasn’t looking, she put the steak from her salad onto mine and gave me a “Shh” sign.
Like her hair, her face had been artfully arranged. She had lightly-blushed peach cheeks and her big blue eyes begged for attention under her redone makeup. I should get at least half the credit for her transformation. Instead of a hot mess, she was just, well, hot.
I started on the salad, jamming my fork full of spinach leaves and steak while Hope gave me sideways glances. She let me eat for a minute or two.
Got Hope Page 2